


Rise of the Omnic Empire

by Chilliam



Series: Of Man and Machine [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Space Opera, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-24
Updated: 2017-05-15
Packaged: 2018-09-26 16:53:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9912128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chilliam/pseuds/Chilliam
Summary: The Omnic Empire has taken over the whole of civilization, bringing their organic creators underneath their iron rule.  Humanity is scattered along the outer rim with little hope of regaining control over the central systems.  These are the chronicles of the Deadeye's crew and her smuggler-turned-captain, as they brave the perils of space, be they man or machine.





	1. Wings Over Illios

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the war between man and machine rages on, one woman finds herself in the crossfire. She alone must fight her way through smugglers, bounty hunters, and her own personal demons to protect what matters most... A large metal crate.

 

**Illios**

 

     As far as port cities go, Illios shone brighter than most, its reflective panels shielded weary spacers from punishing rays of starlight. Needless to say, it's not hard to miss. _So why,_ thought Angela, _... is he so late?_ Huffing and frustrated she reached for the crumpled holo-note in her pocket and smoothed the screen, setting the display to her armband.  'The Gravity Well,' it read, 'mid-cycle.' She checked the time and mid-cycle was rapidly approaching.  She watched the bar doors like a hawk, hands clasped over a cup she had no interest in drinking, sitting on large, coffin-like crate, staring idly at washed-up patrons clad in secondhand tourist-wear, jury-rigged to adapt to the harsher climes of Illios' underbelly.  They all had them, the patrons, the bartender, even the semi-live band playing; tired eyes, hungry hands, and the shackled shoes of those too poor or too scared to escape the gravity that swirled in The Well.

     Once the Chrono struck mid, Angela found herself under fire as a single shot struck her from the other side of the bar.  She spun around to face her attacker, the few years she had of basic training running side-by-side with the adrenaline coursing through her veins.  If she was wounded, she felt nothing, but she'd surely feel it as soon as the high of the fight wore off.  She aimed her laspistol at the scruffy-looking spacer.  Confusion questioned her judgment, her trigger finger froze in place as she noticed her attacker was unarmed, aiming a finger-pistol with his hand.  And then she realized why she remained unscathed, the slug laid relaxed and untangled on the floor: a circular rubber band. "Idiot," She cursed herself in her native tongue.

     "Might jumpy there, aren't we, darlin'?" He wasn't wrong, but that's no reason to give him the satisfaction.  "Is this yours?" She threw the crumpled holo-note to the man in the wide-brimmed hat.  After a great degree of chin-scratching he nodded, "mhmm, looks like my chicken-scratch, you must be my client,  I'll be honest, wasn't expecting someone like you from the messages." She scoffed as he looked her up and down, "I can empathize. You type like a girl." That made him grin. When it came to smugglers you had to have an in and that in, Angela discovered, was insults. "Have a seat lil' lady, let's talk shop."

     He moved past the now-jittery patrons to join Angela at her table. "Sorry for firing at ya, I've got my reasons, so what can I do ya for?" "I heard you're the man to go to for moving cargo."  He cocked his head to the side and spat, "Deck 4."  Puzzled, Angela asked, "Deck 4?." "Yeah," he puffed a cloud of smoke, acrid as the words he spoke, "that's where you'll find Shippin' an' Receiving. You want your stuff moved you talk to them." She grabbed fistfuls of his shirt, unaware of where that came from, but willing to use it to her advantage, "if I wanted Shipping and Receiving, I would have talked to -them-  over encrypted channels, with the silly code names, risking life and limb with each message I sent, all for a meeting in this hole in the ground. So tell me, Rhinestone Cowboy, is my time being wasted?"  She stared into his stunned eyes before quickly letting go of her hold, smoothing out the freshly made wrinkles in his shirt, curtly, hoping he hadn't noticed her hands beginning to tremble.

     "That's cute, Angel, but you'll have to buy me a drink, first.  As for your time, you'll have to be the judge of that.  You know what they say about time you enjoy wasting not bein' wasted time?" He gestured for what passed for the waiter of this establishment to come over to their table. "This place was famous for Floats before the war. They served them in lil' anti-gravi teacups, cute as the dickens."  "Must we wax nostalgic about this bar or that time period?" Taken aback from that he rubbed the back side of his neck with feigned sympathy, "it's kind of our thing, if this is your first time dealing with the finer points of our trade I'll have you know that you best be ready to hear about the dusty cantinas of the golden years.  To us, you ain't worth your weight in stardust unless you can walk into any ole' bar and spin a yarn about the last time you were there and the artificial gravity was on the fritz, so everybody's drink was on the house... or the ceiling, or in the air. Point is for you to deny us one of our more simpler pleasures begs me to question what's a matter? Got a hot date or something?" "As a matter of fact, I do." She huffed, "but my transportation is too busy trying to get me to buy him drinks. You have to understand that this doesn't exactly inspire confidence." He tapped a few ashes off his cigar, "you cut me deep, Angel. A little honesty never hurt nobody. Figured you oughta know where your money was going. Here's your fair warning: it's going to drinks.  Whether or not they start floating is all up to that fella over there in the overgrown hamster wheel keeping us all on our toes and not in the air." The cigar swirled in his left hand, twirling around his fingers, the movements seemed rusty, almost as if his fingers were remembering how to move, but the man showed no signs of rapid aging, no signs of dementia, "So what's keeping ya from paying extra for postage? Afraid the boys on Deck 4'll rattle your package?"

     Angela paused as she thought of what was waiting for her a few decks below, "please, what I have is... Precious to me. I need it and myself off this port, the fewer eyes on us the better." He barked a harsh laugh. "You and every other wannabe fugitive wanderin' these forsaken streets. I'm gonna need specifics, in case you can't see through that visor of yours Illios is full of people itchin' to get out of here. Not many of them are doctors, but they're plentiful." "How did you-" "He knocked back a tiny glass of amber liquid and without wasting a second he rattled, "you hold that pistol like it's gonna bite back, your clothes say 'money,' but you've got just enough dirt on ya to tell me you've run dry.  Not 'designated pilot' dry, mind you, otherwise, we wouldn't be talkin' right now, no, more like, 'overcooked, stuffed-fowl' dry." He reached up for her hand, _much too quick_ , she thought, "Ya got real soft hands, delicate little grabbers." Her cheeks grew a bright crimson as she flustered, _next time, just let him talk about the bar._

     Angela pulled her hand back, "I'm going to Dorado. I can pay for myself and my cargo and if need be... Your silence. If you would like more specifics, please feel free to keep up with your parlor tricks, guess away. Who knows, maybe you'll get a few more right." She tossed a few hundred credits his way and after looking at the number he smiled, "well now, Doc looks like you hired yourself a one-way trip to the golden planet with yours truly as captain. You'll find your ride in Dock 6, cozy little freighter I call 'The Deadeye.' We have two 'n a half meals a day. I don't carry luggage, and I don't save damsels in distress, and if you're dead-set on Dorado looks like you'll be needing that peashooter." With a tip of his hat, he exited the bar.   _The man is a walking cliche_ , she thought, _but no matter_.

     Angela finally had a pair of wings to get her off port, even if they did belong tucked away in the folds of a dirty man's poncho. She stood up to walk out of the cylindrical tavern but was cut short by a blood-curdling scream. It bounced off the walls as the poor junker fell from the artificial sunroof. To her surprise, not a single patron got up from their seat, only a couple of them even turned their heads to face the ratty man's general direction.  He wheezed, fidgeting, "... T-there a doctor in the house?"  

     It was at that moment in time that Dr. Ziegler had cursed her Hippocratic oath and dragged her feet towards the strange-smelling crater.  "Tell me... Sir, where does it hurt?" She knelt down to the scent of singed hair, most likely unrelated to the fall. "Right here. Right in the... gullible." -clank-  mechano-cuffs wrapped themselves around her wrist as the junker reeled in his prize, "I got 'er, Roadie, now get the burlap sack!"  His compatriot was a giant among men, huge meaty hands clenched an old-fashioned slug launcher, "Don't need one." He rasped through a respirator as he grabbed Angela.  "Unhand me, swine," cried out Angela, punching keystrokes into her armband to activate the mag-beam in her armband, locking her and the trash man onto the metal crate she was sitting on moments ago. Puzzled at first, the giant lifted the heavy crate under his arm placing her on his shoulder with little to no effort, along with Angela’s new, smelly friend.

     "You could've waited for me to uncuff myself from the Sheila, instead of having the two of us hang off ya shoulder like a couple of rank sand shoes." He started pummeling the larger man with a flurry of tiny punches, which is just what Angela could have hoped for.  With her free hand, she quietly dug into her pocket for a Caduceus clamp and stuck it on the weasel-man's cuff link. In seconds, his blows grew in size, just enough to rile up the lumbering behemoth, "knock it off, little man," he growled. "That wasn't me!" He patted his friend's back but with the kinetic booster, the pat smacked loudly, setting rumbling ripples upon his blubbery shoulder. "That's it!" He flung the crate out through the cantina's doorway, sending the two of them tumbling end over end into streets long since deserted. Realizing the mistake he just made the pig-man squealed in rage, charging after them, slugthrower in hand.  The resulting fling left Angela with a few scrapes and bruises, she looked at her cuff-mate and was surprised to find the scraggly-toothed, ruffian unconscious, the weight of her cargo crushing the man's right leg.  She reached for her blaster.  Upon realizing she couldn't shoot the cuffs off without shooting off her friend's hand she set the Caduceus clamp to heal whatever damages she was sure to incur.

     Angela said a small prayer, and for what it's worth, aimed so that her shot was a clean one. 'Come on, girl, you've done much, much worse than this,' she reasoned. She squeezed the trigger and fired, waiting to hear the signature sound of cell repair, the smell of scorched skin, and the pained screams of her abductor to ring through the hollow docking bay.  ‘Any second now... Any second now.’  There were no screams, no smells of singed skin, but there was a peculiar whiff of burning rubber and circuitry.

     She'd investigate the issue further were it not for the thundering footfalls of the round rumbler careening straight for her. Upon her feet, with her blaster still in hand, she opened fire, her shots as effective as shooting pebbles into an oncoming avalanche. 'Missed. Missed... Got him! But that did nothing.' The clip grew hotter and hotter with each shot expended. One shot tore through his respirator, but that only seemed to hasten his speed, his slobbering maw drawn wide in a deafening roar.

      Fiddling through her satchel she found another Caduceus clamp and tossed it onto the floor. It grabbed onto his boot making his footsteps dig deeper and deeper into the metal grating until it gave way.  For a moment there was calm, but that moment ended much too soon as a ragged metal hook claimed Angela's foot, the weight of the chain demanding that she join its owner, and join him she did, pulled into the freshly made rabbit hole.  As she fell, Angela reactivated the mag-beam on her armband in an attempt to tear away from her captor's sinking grasp, but to no avail.  Her efforts sent the large metal coffin toppling after them, joining with her cargo once more. After a series of thuds echoed within the dock's empty chambers, Angela found herself atop an unconscious attacker centered in a crater of collapsed, crates to the surprise of the entire loading team of Dock 6.

     "Well darlin', you sure like to make an entrance, don't ya?" Limping, Angela carried herself to one of the levitators nearby, floating it towards the fallen giant and the crate that had fallen squarely on the man's stomach.  It was the size of a man, weighing twice as much as one, and carried no distinguishing markings save for a small, golden halo on the side. She set the levitator to 'push' and with a great degree of difficulty  hoisted the crate onto it and sent the levitator rolling into the Deadeye's open cargo bay, right past her soon-to-be captain, standing arms crossed and brow quirked. Angela jumped with a start as she found his hands on the levitator's push-bar. "... Given light of recent events, I feel I can bend a rule or two of mine, seeing as there's no damsels that need savin'." "Thank you," She winced, the two of them making their way up the ramp past dockworkers who suddenly seemed very interested in the work they were previously shirking before the crash.  "Ship wasn’t too hard to find now, was it?" Angela shot him a withering stare, "sorry, 'fraid I'm not too good at small talk, darlin'."

     "What's all this, then? Nobody told me we were getting a new flatmate."  A small, stringy woman, wrapped in a cheery smile, a scarf, and goggles stood by the cargo doors.  She leaned against the doorway, arm raised in a half hearted salute. "Great timing as always, Lena. This is our new passenger, Angel. Angel, our pilot, resident fortuneteller, and famed small-talker: Lena." Lena quickly came to their aid, pushing up the crate along with them, "pleasure, love. Don't let Captain Curmudgeon fool ya. He's a real softie once you get past his crusty, poncho-covered exterior."  "Keep tellin' that to yourself, Lena." She sputtered a flattering raspberry at him before noticing Angela's limp,  "Don't worry, Love. We'll get you patched up quicker than you can say..." "Actually, I'm a doctor. You won't have to worry about me." "Oh? It's about time we had a proper doctor!  Jesse's good and all, but he's not the best when it comes to bedside manner. He means well, but bandages aren't the answer to everything."  "They are when you're bleedin', I'll remember that next time you slip on those rubber monstrosities that pass for boots." Though they weren't particularly monstrous, Angela did find cause to question Lena's choice of footwear. "They're space shoes, Captain! For space!"

     With Angela's crate in check, the crew of the Deadeye prepped the ship for departure in a docking bay that engulfed the vessel like a bubble around an atom.  Ilios was once the tourist capital of the sector, a lush oasis in the cold of space. Docks that once kept the most luxurious pleasure cruisers now housed tent cities of refugees; all of them fleeing from the mechanical march of omnic starships, pushing humanity further and further from Homeworld. Space grew ever more constricted.  Angela felt as if the entirety of mankind had somehow built themselves into a gigantic trash compactor.

     Ilios shrunk behind the Deadeye's thrusters, Angela felt a sense of relief in the drift.  She settled into her cabin, in a bunk that seemed to resist her every effort to become comfortable. 'Living quarters, why is it I never ask about the living quarters?' Questioning her life choices did little to persuade Mr. Sandman, as did the holo-poster of resistance heroes plastered on the ceiling. Fierce fighters of the human cause flickered above Angela's head: there was the shot heard 'round the galaxy, the spider bite that ended the seemingly eternal rule of Mondatta, a skeletal specter whose deathly guise reminded the Omnics that they too could die, a common foot soldier sprinting into the forefront of battle, and then there was justice incarnate.

     To keep morale high these men and women were shown tearing into omnic ranks, firing rockets into starships, sending them hurdling into the ground, but Angela knew better. Half of them are pronounced dead, gravely wounded, or simply missing, and those were the lucky ones.  The others... The thought of them chilled Angela to the bone, a constant reminder of just what the Omnics were capable of, and just how far they were willing to go to eradicate the human condition. _I can fix them_ , thought Angela, _I can fix all of them..._  She vowed, idly sliding through the UI in her visor to display a multitude of icons, her list.  As a bright green dragon shown on her screen Angela began to wonder if sleep would ever claim her.

     Sleep did take her, but only after her legs dragged her half-awake to the cargo hold. Her steps were uneven, the weight of a pulsing Caduceus clamp at work around her ankle throwing her movements slightly to the left. She fell to her knees beside her precious cargo, tracing conjoined circles along the protective casing with a slender finger, "... Starting with you."

  



	2. Human Resistance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Crew of the Deadeye soon discovers that the Omnic Empire is not the sole source of strife among the stars. Trust is not so easily gained in the drift, as humanity finds itself as divided as it was before the rise of the machines. Secrets are revealed, tempers fly. Can our pilot navigate through the ironclad clutches of her fellow man as easily as she can through asteroid fields and wormholes?

**Aboard the Deadeye**    

     Sitting along the shore of a sandy beach are two figures, their legs splashing at the water’s edge, hooks in their hands. “Ya think we’re gonna catch a lotta fish today, Mr. Pig?” Mr. Pig’s stomach began rumbling at the thought. “I hope so, Rat.” Rat stuck his fishing rod in the sand next to Mr. Pig, “here, you hook ‘em, I’ll cook ‘em,” and with that he set to cackling, thoroughly amused by a joke he’s told Mr. Pig hundreds of times before, and although Pig never really understood his jokes, he valued his company nonetheless.  After finding a nice dry spot in the sand, Rat began work on starting a rather large fire.  Well, a rather large for his size, anyway.  As the fire crackled to life, Mr. Pig had a thought, “Rat?” He said. “Yeah, Pig?” Replied Rat.  “Ever feel like you’re not really... in control?” with effort, Rat ripped his attention away from the blaze. “What’cha mean, mate?” Mr. Pig, grunted uneasily, “forget it.”  Rat shook his head, “Nah, Nah Mr. Pig, can’t just lead me to the curiosity door an’ say it’s locked.” Mr. Pig struggled to find the right words, and after a while of not finding them, he settled for this: “fine. It’s just that, sometimes, I feel like what I say, or what I do, it’s not really me.” Rat’s eyebrow rose, questionably, “how so?”  Pig wrestled for the words, “I feel like this giant… this giant thing is making me do the things I do, like sitting here fishing. What do you think?”

    Rat laughed at Mr. Pig, “that’s one I haven’t heard from ya yet. ‘Giants make me do things’” Mr. Pig frowned, hurt shown plain on his face, so he scrambled a defense, “I didn’t say a giant, I said a giant thing… but I like your idea of a giant, too.” Rat wrapped a teeny, tiny arm around Pig’s massive shoulder, “mate, there’s no such thing, and even if there is, giants have much better things to do than make you fish or make me start fires. Besides, you’d be able to see ‘em!” “But, what if they’re invisible?” Pig offered, “Or really, really good at hiding?”  Rat’s nose twitched, as it often did when he came face to face with Pig’s wild imaginings. “Pig, if you were an invisible giant, would you spend all day moving us around like dolls?”  The lapping of waves was all that sounded before Pig came to his senses, “... no?”  He submitted.  “Right?”  Rat jabbed his elbow at his big friend, “you’d be busy hooking giant invisible whales! Or smellin’ those giant bulb-flowers ya like so much.” Mr. Pig conceded defeat, “I guess you’re right.” Rat smiled toothily, beaming at his newfound sense of logic, “of course I’m right, and I don’t need some invisible giant to say so, neither.”

    “Well?” Asked a third, rough voice the likes of which sounded like it was coated in gravel and whiskey. “Not a well, Captain.” Lena said, absentmindedly, hunched over her pilot’s console like a playful T-Rex, “a beach. Can’t catch much fish in a well, silly, not if it’s anythin’ like the one we just left.” With that, the Captain took a palm and applied it squarely to his face. “No Lena, I asked ya how’s our flight path lookin’... you haven’t been playin’ with those Beastmen action figures this whole cycle, have ya?” Slowly, Lena placed the rat and pig back atop the dash which was awash with pinging noises and notifications, “... No?” With a quick smile, he ruffled the spikes of her hair, messily. Blink, and you very well might have missed it, but Lena was much too quick for McCree’s gruff, sleight of hand. “Come on, I’mma let you finish after the meeting. I called all the passengers to the common room, all official-like. You get to explain the flight path to our new passengers. I’ll even let ya use your little action figures to boot.” Lena pondered at that. “Don’t think I’ll be needing Rat and Pig to explain anythin’. I use ‘em for your benefit, Captain. You always seem so lost when I talk about trajectories.” “You say that missy, but I think you’re underestimating the teaching power Rat and Mr. Pig both possess.” He nudged her, playfully and laughed his way out of the cockpit and into the common room of the Deadeye.

    A faint hint of smoke lingered languidly in the drab, muted interior as her Captain shuffled about without so much as a thought.  Flipping and folding over and under his practice grasp are fifty-two, very rare, and very old playing cards. Although they lacked the glitz of Holo-Hearth, McCree found comfort in these pieces of paper, marked by long-forgotten runes. What comfort he gained was shared with his pilot, Lena, who launched airplane after paper airplane into the ventilation grate.  Each plane would soar effortlessly until the suction of air laid claim to yet another passing plane “You think any of ‘em’ll show up?” Lena jabbed.  Furrowing his brow, sourly, McCree regarded his pilot,  “‘course they’ll show up, I’m their Captain if you’d recall. I know that’s a might difficult for you to understand, seein’ as you’re still graspin’ at the concept yourself, but these folks know who’s head honcho here.”

    Although she admired her Captain’s optimism, that didn’t stop his words from floating aimlessly into the air, seeing as the rest of the crew have yet to make themselves known. It wasn't long before she joined those words, as Lena unexpectedly rose from her seat, climbing towards the ceiling.  “Why do I even pay that talking monkey if he can’t keep the gravity locked down?”  McCree cursed, sailing through the air like a poncho-clad tumbleweed. With a cheeky smile, Lena clicked the heels of her unsightly shoes. A harrowing _chomp_ heralded Lena’s sudden descent to normalcy as her Captain floated on. “That’s still not a good enough reason to wear those,” he said, arms clasped and uncompromising. “Suit yourself, Luv,” said Lena, taking one of his boot within her reach and sending Jesse spinning in the air. She skipped into the engine bay, her Captain, a flurry of curses as he threw punches into the open air, behind her.

    Lena walked past the cabins, past the coffin angel in the cargo bay, and into the shadows of the engine bay. Her eyes peered into the dark to see deathly-still turbines. “Win’son,” she yelled, cupping her hands over her mouth, “where are you, friend?” She stepped past floating banana peels, scraps of metal, and tubs of legume mash, licked clean. “Captain’s thinkin’ about sending you back to the arena where he found ya if the gravit-” before she could finish, a wall of fur leaped from the ceiling to cling tightly onto rusted handrails.  Win’son towered over Lena, and if she were a casual spacer the mere sight of him would be enough to send her running to the lavatories. But Lena was Lena, and so she greeted the ship’s engineer with a spritely hug. “There you are!” Lena beamed at the beast.  Seemingly unaffected by the hug, Win’son’s eyes honed in on her shoes. “Not you too! Everyone’s on my tush about my shoes!” he growled at her, but she found meaning in his growls. “What do you mean I have to take ‘em off? What about the grav-” He waved an arm, silencing her, “This will... protect us?” She asked.  “What are you going on about, chum?”

    Clawing their way through the doorway are the gloved hands of Captain McCree. “This is the thanks I get for busting you out of that gladiator crater: shoddy gravity.  I should’ve let ya rot in that glorified flea circus!” With a heave, he propelled himself to the control module but a large furry arm blocked his path and sent him towards a newfound trajectory, headfirst into a pile of now-floating, titanium barrels. “Alright, I get it. Didn’t figure ya for a sore loser, Win’son.” He grabbed his hat and shoved it over his head before it floated out of reach. “It was one game of Pong, no reason for ya to turn off the gravity and take vengeance on yer loving Captain, Donkey Kong.” He roared defiantly, Lena saw through the beast-speak, “He says this is no game and he’s no one’s donkey.”  Before her Captain could dig himself deeper with old world references, Lena interjected, “what’s going on, friend?”

    The colossal engineer chewed on his lip, thoughtfully, fear plain in his eyes. “We are being watched? Ever since Illios.” He nodded at her translation. “How does turnin’ off the gravity do us any good? Are we putting on a show for ‘em? I’m sure I’d be rendered useless with giggles if I saw us floatin’ around like candy bars inna pool.” Win’son snorted his response, “Whaddya mean they can _see_ through gravity?!?” Without another word, Lena clicked her heels and joined her crewmates in the air.  She swam out of the engine bay and doggie paddled her way towards the cockpit. A cacophony of electronic pings and alarms hit her like a bulkhead as they sounded off from the ship’s radar. Within seconds Lena found herself falling towards the ground.

    “Captain, mate, I think Win’son’s on to something! Best we turn off the grav!” She shouted down the hallway.  “It wasn’t me! I’m still tryin’ to show Ape Escape here what for!” The ship’s intercom system crackled to life no sooner than Lena had found meaning in Win’son’s warning.  “Greetings, fellow spacers. Feel that pull? That’s a tractor beam, and what follows tractor beams? You guessed it, boarding parties.  Pretty soon they’ll be searching your ship for anything out of the ordinary.  So now you have a choice: Come clean, make this process quick and painless, or submit to a grueling search of your vessel and deal with the consequences of withholding your precious secrets.  This has been a friendly warning.”

    Panic spread like wildfire inside the Deadeye as its crew rushed rampantly to seal away whatever secrets they thought they harbored.  Angela struggled tearfully to place crate after crate atop her beloved casket in the cargo bay.  Jesse rushed past the common room to his Captain’s quarters, downloading logs off his comp and shoving them into a lockbox under his desk.  Win’son, knuckle-walking at a furious pace, climbed down one of the hatches in the engine room to the armory. There he stood, in the dark, electro-net primed, in wait.  Lena zipped to and fro, ripping off pro-resistance holo-posters from the cabins before running to her cockpit to squirrel away the action figures on her console, who were still fishing.  Angela stood by the threshold of the ship’s side hatch, sniffling, laspistol aimed at the door. Jesse walked casually out of the Captain’s quarters, sans hat and poncho, reloading heat clips into his revolver.  He holstered his revolver and placed a hand on Angela’s laspistol, lowering her weapon, “none of that yet, Angel.”  Lena joined the two, panting for breath, hands on her knees, before giving them a smile and a solid set of finger pistols.

    “Alright, crew, from this moment on we are switzerland. No way of knowing which side these folks are on so until I can assess the situation I don’t want to hear anythin’ wilder than vanilla ice cream. Our very lives depend on it. Understood?” Silent nods were all that could be managed before a hissing noise and the sound of heavy boots on metal announced the boarding party.  A frigid air filled the common room as towering bundles of arctic furs stormed the premises, lining the walls, slug-throwers at the ready. Goggled eyes scanned for possible threats before a muffled shout sounded off from one of the stronger-looking bundles.  To Lena, it sounded human, but the tongue was harsher, rough.

    Just then, a mountain of muscle stepped -no, stomped through the doorway, dwarfing the largest bundle who summoned it, who, in turn, dwarfed Lena. It walked over to Lena, who had to tilt her head up to see a sky’s worth of face-obscuring visor. “Captain,” it greeted her.  Lena’s eyes grew wide, a sidewards glance at a furiously nodding McCree was all it took to spread a smile upon her face. “Yup! That’s me: Lena Oxton, Captain Lena Oxton. Captain of the HMS… Tardis.  Which is my ship! ...This ship!”  Jesse’s face bore heavily into his open palm. “Welcome to my humble ship!”  Lena either heard a snort or a giggle escape from the visor, but its body remained motionless. “Papers, please.”

    “Ah, yes, papers. Captain papers, I assume? For a nice, legal spacefaring vessel.” “They’re right here, Captain,” said McCree, holo-docs held in his outstretched hand. “What the bloomin’ heck are you doing with my papers, pilot?” She snatched the docs from his hands in a motion that, at least to her, screamed ‘commanding Captain presence’ before handing it off to the mountain.  “I’ll have you steering this ship blindfolded for your insolence… Welp.”  Large hands took the papers, visor searching for error.  “Heading for Dorado, yes? On what business?”  Without skipping a beat, Lena offered, “why, we are on a charity mission, of course! We were just dropping off our doctor here to help the misfortuned.  Just spreading help where help is needed.”  Angela could kill Lena with the bullets she sweated, but for some reason, the mountain was sated, “is good,” it nodded.  Those large hands took hold of the visored helmet under arm to reveal rose-colored hair.

    “Apologies for the intrusion, but humanity cannot afford to take many chances.  I am Commander Aleksandra Zaryanova, and these are the men and women of the Dawn Treader Battlecruiser.”  Lena smiled sheepishly, “No trouble at all, Luv-... Ma’am. That was a proper herald you gave us, very polite.  Not antagonizing in the slightest!”  At that, Aleksandra narrowed her eyes, tilting her head to the side, “we gave no herald.”   _Then who did?_ Lena thought.  “Why give you warning?  The machines give no warning, and neither should we.  You could have been sneaky devils.  Ah! That reminds me, we have to search your ship.” With that Aleksandra motioned for her people to start darting into the corridors and passageways that made up the newly christened HMS Tardis. “But our papers!” “-Are obviously fake,” she replied, handing back the docs, “but I like you, feisty Captain, so no detaining yet, only searching.”

    A moment's worth of rifling and one of her men came back from the cabins with Lena’s zipped up holo-posters, “we found these in the pilot's cabin.” She took it from her comrade’s hand, unzipping it to show a revealing poster of a red-headed woman, clad in assassin’s leathers, taking aim at a few pots and pans fashioned into an effigy of Mondatta. Lena’s face grew as red as the Tardis’ muted thrusters, she scrambled for a valid excuse, “McCree you filthy dog-...” she began to shout, but Aleksandra held up a hand, “actually,” she began, “It’s pretty good.  Not my type, but she works Lacroix’s leathers well.” That sent Lena blushing brighter than a supernova. “What exactly are you fellas searching for?”  McCree pried, “if ya gave us a clue we could lend you a hand. It’d be a heck of a lot easier than havin’ y’all searchin’ through my nude holo-mags… under my bed… in the pilot’s cabin.”

    “Our people are looking for a stowaway, one who has left Illios, headed for Dorado.” She stepped closer and closer to Angela.  “She has wronged us, sold the whole of humanity to the omnics… All to save herself… And she looks... like... this!”  With a flick of a well-muscled wrist, Aleksandra handed a holo-flyer to Angela, who sighed, visibly relieved, before passing it down to the newly promoted Captain Oxton.  The grainy surveillance pic showed a woman with a half-shaven head, what part of her head that wasn’t covered with hair was a mass of wires. “She lurks in shadow, taunting, spreading lies about the human front, spilling secrets.  For the good of humanity, we must find this omnic spy, bring her to justice.” “But, she’s not an omnic,” Lena offered, “those are cybernetics.” Aleksandra’s gaze turned to steel, “half omnic is still omnic, Captain.” Aleksandra countered, prompting McCree to rub his left hand, anxiously.

    A woman emerged from the Captain’s quarters, slug-thrower slung on her back, her hands holding a crumpled up sheet.  She unwrapped the sheet that held McCree’s wide-brimmed hat, “looks like we found ourselves a _buckaroo_ ,” the woman attempted her best, westward accent.  Aleksandra eyed McCree and then Lena, “... You two?” Flabbergasted, Lena replied at a speed that would put light to shame “Nope! No! Nuh-uh! Those are...  props.”  “For what?” The Commander asked, “roleplay?”  It was a serious question from the Commander.  “Kind of, except, not really at all. I mean, that’s highly inappropriate, pilot and Captain getting it on like that.  Besides he’s not like that at all.  He’s a jolly rancher.”  Lena could feel the daggers McCree’s eyes were throwing.

    “Komandarm, look at this!” The Commander made her way to the cargo bay.  Angela paled and followed her, so too did Jesse and Lena.  When they arrived they found Aleksandra’s forces surrounding Angela’s cargo, their voices bouncing around the metal walls of the bay.  “Is human size,” one of the bundles of fur barked, “scans show no life, Komandarm.” Her men started fumbling over the crate before Aleksandra shoved the two aside so she could unfasten the locks.   A shrill ‘Stop!’ silenced the bay.  Aiming her laspistol at the Commander, Angela stood ready to kill.  Every slug-thrower rose at attention, in defense of their Komandarm and for a split second Lena feared she would lose her new doctor friend to a hail of bullets, but Aleksandra surprised her.  She barked an order, and so their arms fell, “you understand the gravity of the situation, yes?”  The cocking of laspistol was her response.  She made her way towards Angela, each step as solid as the one that came before, until she was an arm's length away from her.  A large hand fell over the barrel of Angela’s laspistol, urging her to lower her aim.  She smiled at Angela, “Is ok, little dove.  If you have nothing to hide, you have nothing to fear.”  Without taking her gaze off her would-be shooter, Aleksandra waved a hand, “open, please,” she ordered one of her bundles, as she wrenched the laspistol away from the doctor’s grip.  With a great degree of difficulty, the hatch opened up, hissing air signaled a release of pressure as surprise took hold of the crew.

    Shining brightly in the dimly lit cargo bay, nestled in the crate, was a suit of armor, its angles sleek and aerodynamic. Coarse laughter broke the silence of the cargo bay, as the Commander of the Dawn Treader slapped her knee in earnest.  “First the Lacroix leathers and now this?” Some of her men eyed the crate with caution, while others knelt down to pay their respects.  “What is it Komandarm?”  Asked a younger, fur-wrapped trooper.  “Is obvious!”  Aleksandra cried, “suit of armor, modeled after one of Resistance’s fiercest warrior.  This was before your time, Boris.  She reigned over star and sky.  She was justice herself, taken from us too soon.”  They crowded around the armor, poking and prodding the metal plating, sending Angela shaking with rage.

     “I must thank you for this, little dove.  True, this is no omnic spy, but few will reject the command of Aleksandra Zaryanova once word reaches that I’ve recovered fabled Raptorian armor. We take, now.” Lena edged closer to her former Captain, whispering, “this isn’t looking too good, sir. Think we can take the lot?” “Let’s see here, there’s about two dozen polar bears, one hell of a momma bear, and a battlecruiser filled to the brim with slug-throwers.  Between you and me we have, let’s see…. A weepin’ angel, a pocket full of sand, and about… six shots.  We can take down a good, eight of ‘em, but they got an army.” “But we have a Win’son.”

    All talk of strategy flew out the airlock once Angela fastened a caduceus clamp onto each of her wrists, pouncing on Commander Zaryanova. Flashes of blue light altered with yellow, the clamps strengthening her blows at the moment of impact before repairing whatever damage she incurred while punching her rock-solid body armor.  A wicked grin spread widely upon the Commander’s face, embracing the challenge like a dear, old friend.  Quick to the draw, Jesse whipped out his revolver taking aim at the six fire extinguishers tucked away in the corners of the cargo bay, blanketing the arena in a white, crystal fog.  Lena zipped through a crisscross of metal slugs that attempted to bar her escape to the armory while her captain twirled his firearm in the air, catching it by the barrel, before bludgeoning the troopers of the Dawn Treader with the spur welded onto its grip.

    Lena reached the common room to find Aleksandra’s men beaten, sprawled upon the floor, sparse groans coming from a few of the bodies.  Confusion nagged at the back of her head, but she pressed on to the armory, where she whistled for the engineer, who leaped at her from the shadows. “Come on, Luv! Fight’s this way!”  They raced to the cargo bay only to find Aleksandra boarding the battlecruiser, dragging the Doctor’s crate in one hand while Angela slung limply on her shoulder.  Win’son charged for her, into the narrow corridor that connected the two ships.  As the rampaging galloping of knuckles sent the ship's link to tremble, Aleksandra kicked her cargo behind her into the Dawn Treader’s threshold.  Once her quarry was safe behind her she readied herself, digging her grav-boots to the ground, arms outstretched.

   And so the unstoppable force came to blows with the immovable, primal arms swinging into walls of fortified muscle.  “This the best you’ve got, monkey?” Win’son roared a witty response back at her, but the translation was lost amidst the melee.  The whole of the corridor rumbled with the force of a small earthquake threatening to sever the link between ships.   Flashing caution strobes warned the imminent failure of the structure’s integrity. Seizing the moment, Lena darted, ducking under the clashing titans, rushing to Angela’s side.  She knelt down to pick her up, heaving her doctor friend over her shoulder, stumbling as the hallway shook and shuddered.  

    With the fighting safely behind them, Lena dropped the doctor onto one of the faded couches, but before she could turn back the airlocks slid shut.  She started punching keys into the locks, furiously, her eyes rushing back and forth between the locks and the behemoths.  Her efforts were returned by shocking purple tendrils of lightning.  They bit into her, staying her hand.  “Win’son!” She screamed, banging the porthole with her other hand.  McCree slid towards the bulkhead, jamming his left hand into the lock. Sparks tore away at his leather glove, but it was too late.  The link shattered.

    Unable to watch the vacuum take hold of her friend, Lena sunk down to the floor, her back cradled by the rampant airlock that saved the lives of the Deadeye’s crew.  Without warning, the thrusters kicked into gear, jettisoning the ship towards anywhere but here, and fast.  “Who’s flying my ship!” Jesse bellowed, stomping into the cockpit, hand still smoking.  Purple skulls overlaid every visual screen, haunting giggles echoed, dancing through the dust motes in the still air.  Jesse took the wheel, every turn was met with resistance before the wheel locked back into the forward position. “Uh uh uh, no turning back, Viejo. You don’t want to join your monkey friend, do you?”  Jesse seethed, “gimme back my ship you glorified spook!”  “I’ll give it back, but not until you’re safe.  The cloak I left you isn’t going to last forever.  It’s the least I can do for helping me.”

    “How is this helpin’ us?  You’ve left us without our engineer!?!” “-And I left them without their Commander, count yourself lucky, Capitȧn, or it’d be you floating in the drift.” He fumbled underneath the console, searching behind the monitors. “You won’t find me there,” the voice chided. “Where are ya! Show yourself!” McCree shouted at the screens.  “I couldn’t if I tried. I jumped ship.  Why don’t you relax? You played your part well, enjoy the ride.” “Why help us? Why should I trust ya? You could be sendin’ us off to the center of a sun or some such.”  “You’re like me, old man.  You wouldn’t have lasted in the momma bear’s den, they would have found out sooner than later.”  Tapping metal fingers drummed in succession on the console.  “We’ll keep in touch… I’m sorry for your friend.”

    Joining Lena against the airlock, McCree sat down next to his pilot.  He patted her shoulder, “we’ve been had. Hadn’t we?” Lena sniffled, knees were drawn into her, head buried beneath crossed arms.  “I was just starting to understand him.” Ever the comforting type, McCree nodded, “... Yup.”  Taking a stand, the Captain made his way over the bodies that littered the common room to an unconscious Angela on the couch.  He dug into his pocket for a pouch of smelling salts, waving it under Angela’s nose.  She woke with a start, but he held her down, “Settle down. I need answers.”  He started, sighing into his metal palm, fingers pinching at the bridge of his nose, his eyes dull from exhaustion. “Tell me, Doc, what did I just lose my engineer for?”


	3. The Shadow of Dawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Command of the Dawn Treader changes hands after the fall of their glorious leader. The search for the Omnic spy continues.

    The threshold of the Dawn Treader closed shut with a shuddering grind.  There’s not much keeping the ship-link between her and the Deadeye: Recycled materials, the starship equivalent of chewing gum, and the hopes and dreams of the Human Resistance.  It would be a crippling shame should her Commander end up on the wrong side of an airlock.   _ Yes, it would, _ Sombra thought to herself.  She bobbed and weaved through what passed for Resistance programming, plucked the single strand of code keeping the tangled mess together, and sat back, watching the link disintegrate into the void.  Before she could admire her own handiwork, hard-hitting footfalls sounded from a nearby corridor, announcing the arrival of harder-hitting troopers. 

   She reached over her shoulders to pull up a shroud over her head, a shroud that was no longer with her, prompting her to break in a cold sweat.   _ Son of a glitch! _  Sombra cursed, searching the room for an answer to her plain visibility, each passing second the troopers grew closer.  No answer grew clearer than the large metal crate, half-open on the floor.  Scrambling to fit inside the cavernous container, she made friends with the suit of armor that she shared her hiding spot with before shutting the hinge on top.  Darkness swallowed her, and for a moment she was relieved until a sudden -click- echoed from within the chamber.  She was trapped.  They had her, the terror that hid within the shadows, the fearmongering phantasm in the machine, neutralized by a commonplace locking mechanism.   _ Calm, Sombreada, this is the same thing that happened with the last ship.  You got out of that one… well enough.  Besides, you just saw what they’re calling a ‘firewall,’ chances are they don’t -know- how bad you have it. _

    Sombra could hear the footsteps coming to a complete stop, a heartbeat’s pause, and a man crying, “the Komandarm!  … -the boarding party! Boris was with them!”  Someone’s knees hit the ground, whether it was the devastating loss of their kinsmen or the further inspection of Sombra’s hideaway, she couldn’t say for certain.  The sound of boots scuffing along the deck and a striking slap resonated within the room. “Get a hold of yourself! We must bring word of this to her Second,” scolded a woman’s voice, “she’s in command.”  Footsteps made their way towards the corner of the room before the voice began speaking into what Sombra could only assume to be a ship-wide communicator. “The cryo-tech?” sneered the first voice, “in charge?!?” He raved, “I’d sooner follow the boiler room boy.”  Though no sound could be heard, Sombra could -feel- the daggers shooting out of the woman’s eyes, it was enough to send shivers down her cybernetics, nice shivers.

    While the two soldiers squabbled over their preference regarding the chain of command, and whether or not said chain would be used to beat the other until a proper authority was made known, Sombra fiddled with the innards of her new confines.  She was surprised to discover that, even though the locking mechanism was fairly outdated, the crate sported a rather sophisticated mag-system.  Using the tips of her fingers, she materialized a small screen with a minimap of the battlecruiser gathered from omnic scans.  Omnic intel always brought a smile to Sombra’s face.  Despite the Resistance’s depiction of the cold unfeeling nature of their metallic rivals, the omnics always maintain an almost human degree of pettiness in regards to their fleshy foes and their way of life.  For instance: blueprints containing rooms like ‘food storage,’ ‘kitchen,’ and ‘bathroom’ are labeled ‘pre-human waste,’ ‘organic waste prep,’ and ‘organic waste disposal,’ respectfully.  Any flaw that fell under their calculating eyes is documented in the margins, highly organized, and well thought out.  Truth be told, Sombra could use her own, more efficient scans, but she adored the aesthetic.

    She squinted her eyes at the map, placing herself within the ‘person-portal’ of the Dawn Treader.  From there, she worked a route to the ‘explosive-based propulsion room,’ which was really the engine room but was labeled as such for its inefficiency and likelihood of blowing up.  It was right past the crew bunks and rec rooms, both lumped together as ‘frivolous recharge stations.’  That meant Sombra would have to pass by a slew of resting crewmen, in a large metal crate, with nothing but noisy magnets to inchworm her way towards the engine bay.  She’d have to disable the drivers, manually, thanks to the wireless paranoia of the Resistance.  Once the battlecruiser floated helplessly adrift she’d need to descend through flights of stairs and maneuver through a mass of corridors, none of which looked crate-accessible, to the bridge’s comms array to signal for extraction.

    It was doable, certainly.  This was nowhere near as challenging as the time she had to infiltrate the senior center station.  Which should have taken minutes but ended in cycles worth of teeth-pulling aggravation.  To be fair, her choice to go undercover as an IT specialist in a beehive of technical ineptitude was not the smartest decision, one that her spy network was apt to remind her from time to time.  It wasn’t all bad, one of the older folks still sends her cookies to thank her for digging up a little dirt on the members of their poker group.  The food, not the browser equivalent.  Nevertheless, Sombra won’t be able to enjoy those tasty, old-fashioned, chip disks if she can’t find a way out of this crate, a crate that seems to be swaying precariously up towards the bridge at a slow, yet steady pace.

_ Huh, guess I won’t need to use the mag-system after all. Shame-...  _  Down dropped half of the crate, causing Sombra to slide to down to her feet.  “I can’t carry anything with these gloves,” one of Sombra’s handlers groaned.  “Stop blaming the gloves, you couldn’t carry anything before we enlisted.”  “At least I can carry a conversation.” Down dropped the other half of the crate, and with it, Sombra’s head.  It took all she had to stop herself from yelling in pain.  If her ears weren’t ringing so loudly, she could hear the long pause outside of the crate as one of her handlers struggled to provide a cutting reply.  “You may be right,’ she submitted, finally, “here, you can carry this ‘conversation’ all the way to the bridge by yourself.”  Footsteps grew softer as the other handler pleaded, “come back! Sasha! I was joking! Please, it’s so heavy!”  There was no movement, and for a moment Sombra almost let out a sigh of relief.  The sound of metal grinding on metal rang in her ears as she realized the lone trooper was struggling to take her to the bridge.  It was enough to make her envy her stint in geriatric IT support.  

    A torrent of voices swirled raucously within the bridge of the Dawn Treader, threatening to suffocate her second-in-command.  She struggled under the gravity of the situation, buried under an avalanche of noise as every man and woman upon the bridge saw it fit to assume the role of advisor.  “The Komandarm must be avenged!  Every second the traitors fly free is a victory for the machines,” shouted one of the navigators.  “Damn you and your vengeance! The Komandarm might still be alive!  Chart a course for her trajectory, -save- her,” cried a gunner, his pleading eyes heavy with grief, heavier than the particle cannons that festooned the broadsides of the battlecruiser.  “Alive?  In a vacuum?!  Do you know how space works?!?  The void has taken our Komandarm, and your idea of honoring her is to pick up the pieces while these cowards crawl back to whatever black hole they came from?”  An engineer slammed her fist upon a nearby dash,  “enough, you two! Whether we search for the remains of the Komandarm or avenge her death is irrelevant.  That ship has served as a diversion for far too long.  Searching that ship was a mistake, brought us no closer to finding the omnic spy.”  And on and on they bickered, forcing the Dawn Treader’s second-in-command to lose herself in her own head.  Frozen in indecision, she stood by the Komandarm’s chair, unable to sit despite her shaking knees.  

_     They’re asking me to lead, Aleksandra.  What were you thinking making me your second?  I’m sure you didn’t mean for this to happen.   _ There was much and more Aleksandra Zaryanova did not account for when she assumed command of the Dawn Treader.  _  I-I always assumed you’d be here, with me… I can’t lead them, I’m a glorified cryo-tech! They need someone stronger, a leader… a -you-!  What would you do?  What would you do if it were me?  Drifting, alone.   _ Aleksandra would fight for her, this she knew.  “Deploy the First Hammer fighters,” she commanded, “send half after the spacers, the other half will bring back the Komandarm.  Helmsman, keep us adrift.  All search for the Omnic spy shall halt until we right this wrong.”  That quieted some, while a choice few crewmen slunk away, disgruntled.  At the very least, having orders to carry out will keep them from shouting at her.  Several decks below the bridge, the fighter pilots of the First Hammer were scrambling at full swing.  Bulky, square starships descended from the underbelly of the Dawn Treader, cutting through the stars like their namesake.

    Just then, the reinforced doors to the bridge slid open, an out-of-breath trooper clad in a fur-wrapped, sweat-drenched, armored suit entered the room, lugging a metal container behind him.  “Please, comrades, not all at once.  No help is needed, I managed this far by myself.”  Still a stranger to the Resistance’s sense of humor, the Acting Komandarm stepped forward.  She lent the trooper a hand and with her help, they settled it in the center of the room. “You were with Sasha, correct? The one who gave us the news.  This is the crate she spoke of?”  He nodded, wiping the sweat from his brow.  “Whatever this is, the Komandarm risked her life to bring it aboard,”  he scratched his head, thoughtfully, “pretty sure it’s not a bomb.”  She cocked her head to the side and said, “pretty sure?  Did you not think to check that before you brought it here?”  _ Why didn’t I think of that?  _  Sombra thought as they positioned her container vertically and much to her surprise, with her feet on the ground.

    She’d have much more time to think back on her actions later.  For now, Sombra had to figure out what she was going to do should they manage to open the lock.  Although jumping out from her hiding place to scream ‘boo’ did have a certain appeal to it, she would need a lot more than the element of surprise to escape the bridge unscathed.  Sudden as a shooting star skating along the atmosphere a thought dawned upon her.  She hugged her cellmate, the suit of armor that shared up seventy-five percent of their confines.   _ I’ve always wanted to be a puppeteer,  _ she mused, smiling giddily as she heard the tumblers of the locking mechanism unlocking one by one.

    “Almost got it… -and there!”  Smoke and the scent of propulsion fuel filled the bridge at an alarming rate.  “If this turns out to be a bomb, comrade,” coughed one of the crewmen, “I’ll kill you before it goes off!”  Stilted servos whirred to life as the sounds of shifting metal plating emanated from within the metallic sarcophagus.  The groaning metal reverb was enough to place anyone on the edge, but the crew of the Dawn Treader shared a deeper fear.  What was unsettling to most was traumatic to some.  Many of the hands on deck grabbed their sidearms, taking aim at whatever might emerge from the wave of smoke, all save for the Acting Komandarm who watched on, enraptured.

    “Impossible,” she whispered, clinging tightly to the command console behind her.  An armored wraith stepped forth from the smoky shadows, “Fareeha,” the Acting Komandarm mouthed, “I saw them take you… How did you survive?”  She stared anxiously at the hollow visor,  “I didn’t,” replied a heavily synthesized voice, the armor stomped heavily towards her, a metal gauntlet clasped around her throat before she could say, ‘fire at will.”  A hail of slugs bounced off the specter, darting off to embed themselves in an impressive array of navigation systems, steering mechanisms and the body parts of a few choice members of the bridge crew.  “A… -may.. -zing,”  she wheezed breathlessly, growing colder as the room around her faded into the dark.

    Blasting through the doors to the bridge, Sombra raced her way towards engineering.  The bug she planted in the bridge’s comms array still needed time to chew through a couple cables before she could get her signal across, but she was confident that by the time she messed with the engines they’d be here.  She grabbed a fur-lined coat from one of the downed crewmates, if not to blend in then to protect herself from the freezing corridors of the Dawn Treader.   _ It’s so cold.  Why is it so cold? The last ship wasn’t this cold,  _ she pushed the thought aside, blustering in her sprint, her hot breath trailing behind her.  A klaxon blared heavily in the hallways, and while it rallied the troopers of the 512th to action, Sombra reveled in it.   _ Every good show deserves an applause,  _ she reasoned, snaking through vaulted corridors and scrambling troopers.

    She arrived at engineering but was halted by a duo of guards who asked her for identification and purpose of visit.  Sombra’s reply was curt and sudden: she ran down one of the corridors, hoping they’d chase her, but not before leaving a small disk on the floor.   _ Just a few more steps, come on, come on! _  As soon as they were a fair distance away from engineering she activated her translocator and found herself outside of the engineering door.  Sombra bolted the door behind her, jamming the door shut as her nails dug deep into the locks, just before the guards returned, pounding at the door.  Gasping for breath, she slid down the door.  A smile grew wide upon her face.  “There she is. It’s about time you showed up.”

    Sombra was not alone in the engine bay, a gruff, squat man cradling an explosive in his hand stared at her through bushy brows and an overgrown beard.  “You spy types are a predictable bunch, you know?  Sooner or later you all come crawling here, trying to get the best of me.” A wall-mounted cannon soon sprung to life, sights trained on Sombra.  “You’ll be sorry to find that I run a tight ship.”  Thinking quickly, she hacked the turret, sending the cannon off to slumberland, dreaming of electric, well-armed sheep.  “Well then,” he spat, cracking his neck, “they don’t normally do that.  Think fast!”

    Without a moment’s hesitation, the man tossed the explosive at her.  She caught it deftly in her hand, not knowing how much her reflexes had betrayed her so.  “A present, for me? You shouldn’t have! Here let me return the favor,” she sneered, but before she could throw what she thought was a grenade back at the old man, her fingers froze.  Sombra swore, unable to release the danger from her palm, shaking her hand to and fro.  "What kind of sticky bomb is this?" Growled Sombra.  "The constructive kind," chortled the old man, slapping his knee with gusto.  Crude sheets of metal wrapped around Sombra’s frame, they weighed her down with each body part they enveloped.  “I was hoping to save that to patch up the engines, but it looks like you need it more!” The old man cackled, lazily walking towards the bay’s comms hub.

    “Hello, this is engineering.  I have one spy here, wrapped up and ready for you at your earliest convenience.  Hello? … Hey!  I know you can hear me,” he shouted, banging the mouthpiece onto the countertop.  “Bad reception?” Sombra asked, still struggling under layers of protective plating.  “Nothing a little percussive maintenance won’t solve,” countered the old man, banging away at the comm so fiercely Sombra began to wonder what was the point in having her sabotage the engines in the first place.  Inspiration struck Sombra like a hammer to an anvil.

    Sombra snapped her armored fingers clumsily at the wall-mounted turret, releasing it from her sleeper hold.  She held her breath, still as a statue, the wrong timing could leave her with one less limb, much like her bearded captor, or worse dead.  When the turret awoke it scanned the area, surprised to find a well-armored intruder in its midst.  It opened fire, a barrage of bullets hailed upon Sombra’s armored prison, eating through the plate like an acidic rain.  “What do you think you’re doing?!  Fool of a spy!” He cried, watching the turret lay it’s fire rampantly, spraying bullets wildly around the engine bay. He threw a wrench squarely at a button, halting the rain, but not before it shattered the lighting, blanketing the bay in darkness.

    His prisoner flew loose, darting in the dark with nothing but the sparks of malfunctioning machinery to hint at where she was.  She grew closer with each newly broken system; There goes the thrusters, the fuel injectors, the gravity emitters, “No, no, no!” The Engineer grabbed for his bolter and shot into the dark after the sparking systems.  “Stop it, you little devil! You’ll doom us all!”  He unloaded a flurry of bolts where he thought she was, emptying his clip, panting, his eye searching frantically for the saboteur.  “It looks like you did most of the work for me, old man,” a whisper in his ear sent him shivering, as Sombra clicked her nails together to mimic the sparking of machines gone bust.  By the time the guards torched through the jammed door they found a darkened engine bay, its machinery impaled with so many metal bolts they looked like cacti, and a rose-colored engineer.

    The Dawn Treader drifted aimlessly in space, the outer shell of the battlecruiser appeared deceptively calm, there were no external signs to show the strife its crew was experiencing.  Edging terribly close to her was a monolithic structure, covered in blackened steel and devoid of windows.  Bright green lights dotted the surface blinking on and off in a pattern that mimicked the fighters that swarmed around the hive-like superstructure in well-coordinated, defensive orbitals.  They descended upon her, as the structure overshadowed the Dawn Treader, picking apart what offensive capabilities the battlecruiser possessed.  The structure opened up, encircling the Dawn Treader with little resistance.  Metal bodies poured into the ship.  Try as they might, the troopers soon ran out of ammunition, an eerie calm descended upon the shrapnel-ladened decks.  A robed figure strode past metal soldiers, many of them held the borrowed faces of fallen Resistance fighters.  The eyes of the crewmen followed it, their knees on the floor with lasguns pointing to their backs.  The shroud entered the bridge, stepping over the unconscious cryo-tech.  He grabbed a comm, his voice carried through the ship's speakers, "My organic life givers, the fighting is over.  Your salvation has arrived."


	4. Fork in the Road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The crew of the Deadeye finds themselves scattered to the winds after narrowly escaping the clutches of pursuing resistance fighters. Otherworldy threats plague our Captain after a harrowing landing on an inhospitable desert wasteland riddled with the ghosts of his past. What hardships must they encounter next as our heroes face the calamity of the 66th Route?

**The 66th Route**

     “Of all the planets to crash into,” McCree groaned, sweat beading so fiercely upon his brow the droplets could be mistaken for a disgusting necklace.  Lena wrestled with the controls, the wheel shook violently, threatening to pry free from her grip, “we’re crash _landing_ , captain, emphasis on _landing_.”  She gritted.  “Your optimism’s awe-inspiring. Almost makes me forget how we’re missing an integral, mechanically-inclined part of our crew.”  

    The intercom crackled to life next to Lena, “Damnit, McCree.  I’m a doctor, not a miracle worker!”  Inside the engine bay, bolts sprung freely from their mechanisms like corks flying loose from bottles of champagne, whizzing dangerously close to our doctor, made reluctant engineer. “‘Angela, heal this,’ ‘Angela my leg’s broken,’ does he ever think of what happens if -I- get hurt? Of course not.” she muttered under her breath.

    The Deadeye lurched into the atmosphere with all the grace of a free-falling whale, nose-diving into harsh, gray clouds, a pack of hungry Resistance fighters nipping at their heels with lasfire.  A barren wasteland rushed eagerly to greet them with a rustic array of dulled oranges and smoky blues.  Arid rock formations jutted jaggedly from the surface as if the whole of the planet were a great big maw.   _This can’t be sheer coincidence,_ McCree pondered, his attention split unevenly between firing the chasing fighters, his train of thought, and a nearby console catching fire.   _Whoever this purple-skulled hooligan thinks she is, what possessed her into steering us... -WOAH THERE!_ “What in tarnation?!?” His hand caught on fire like a simpleton catching on to the tail-end of a witty pun.

    “Third degree burns,” the intercom crackled, “see, that I _can_ treat. It’s almost as if I specialized in that sort of field.”  McCree buzzed the com with his unburnt arm’s elbow, waving his other arm frantically to fan the fire, “can’t treat ‘em if we crash, Doc.  Have fun specializin’ in your field when we’re six feet under.”  Their pursuers latched graviton hooks onto the ship’s fuselage, slowing their descent, but not by much.  “Oi! Get off my ship!” Lena reeled, cranking the wheel, sending the ship into a downward spiral.  The fighters that clung to their prey were soon clinging onto dear life as Deadeye’s new spin sent them crashing into one another.  One of the leeches lost its grip, falling up towards a fellow chaser, the impact sending a shower of flaming debris onto the wasteland.  

    “Hold on, I thought this was a cargo ship, what exactly are you firing -with-, McCree?” The Captain rasped into the intercom after delivering another jab with his elbow, “funny you should mention that, Doc. What we lack in firepower we make up for in cargo. Aren’t ya glad we lost your parcel before I had the chance to chuck it at these hammerheads?”

    “We’re launching provisions!? Provisions we may desperately need in case of a possible crash?!?”

    “Crash- _landing._ ” Lena piped in.  

    “Don’t worry, Doc, survivin’ the desert’s going to be the least of our worries if we make it out of this alive.” A collection of crates shot from behind the Deadeye, a few of them hitting home but much fewer than McCree would like.

    “For someone who prides himself for their aim, you’re missing quite a few of your targets.”  McCree timed the cargo hatch to fly open, sending Numbani linens to blanket the nose of an incoming fighter, “I’m shootin’ containers if they were bullets it’d be a completely different story.”  Angela strained to fastened a loosening bolt, “it’s still... shooting! -is it not?”

    “Try performin’ surgery with a spatula, then we’ll talk.”  

    “It’s almost like flying the ship, under heavy fire, with your crewmates bickering, and your best mate’s gone for an unplanned spacewalk.”  The flight deck grew quiet, as quiet as any ship hurtling into danger could get.  

    “Lena, I didn’t-...”

    “With all due respect, Captain, if you’d be so kind as to stow it? You can save it for when we land safely, on the ground. ...Hopefully,” she cleared her throat and focused her attention towards the cavernous ravine she was steering the ship into, a forced smile on her face as tears pooled in the bottom of her goggles.  A few stray shots found home on the Deadeye’s starboard wing, causing a billowing smoke trail that blinded one of their pursuers sending the small ship into a nearby canyon wall.   _Pure luck,_ thought McCree.  It was one less leech latched onto them, but at what cost?  They had one less leg to stand on and there were more ships on their tail than the Deadeye had legs.

    “We’re crashing!” Lena yelled at no one in particular.  

    “Gee Lena, what tipped ya off?”

    “I’m making the conscious decision to crash. It’s a lot less scary now!” She beamed, unnervingly.  

    “Ya want to let the hammerheads know that we’re crashin’?” McCree shouted over his shoulder, “Maybe they’ll go easier on us.”

    “I think our ship’s ruins strewn along the canyon wall will speak for itself, Captain. No need to hail them.” That made him laugh.  

    “You hear that, Doc? You can keep doin’ what you're doin’ in the engine bay now that we’re makin’ the conscious decision to crash.” The communications system rung loudly, trying to rise above the chaos of the bridge.

    “Captain, I said we -didn’t- have to hail them.” He looked squarely at the incoming transmission.

    “That ain’t us.”

    “Then it’s… from them?”

    A haggard, war-weary face stretched plainly upon the holo-vid screen, “Crew of the Deadeye, this is the squad leader of the First Hammer fighter squadron and I call for parlay. This war has cost us many brothers and sisters, their lives are worth nothing if we keep up this game of cat and mouse, only to send more of our kind into the void.  I’d rather we settle this in a civil manner, in a way our omnic offspring have yet to understand.  I see you are in the midst of… crashing? With your permission, we would like to be of help.  At the very least we can keep you from dying horrifically. What say you?”

    Before McCree could offer an answer lances of green hard-light shot through one of their pursuers, splitting the spacecraft in half before darting towards another one.  “Bloody hell! What was that?” The bolt whizzed closer and closer, claiming more of the fighters until the smoking Deadeye was left, forced to crawl, flying low to the ground.  “It’s comin’ straight for us! Evas-” A series of explosions rang loudly from within the underbelly of the Deadeye.  Angela walked into the bridge at a halting pace, clinging onto the bulkhead for dear life.

    “The engine bay exploded, don’t go in there, bad for your health.” She managed, clutching her bloodied side before falling towards the floor.  “Doc!” McCree abandoned his post to kneel beside Angela, “Here to patch me up, McCree?” She managed before settling into a fit of blood-speckled coughing, “I’d like to see you try.”  “You remember what I said about bullet holes.”  Darkness consumed the crew as the emergency lights flickered on and off before ultimately powering down. “Control’s unresponsive! We’re flying blind!”

    The bridge shattered into pieces as flames engulfed the Deadeye, hailing debris upon the sandy wasteland, lining the skies with smoke trails.  An energy storm crackled in the clouds, for the first time in years the heavens gave way to a hot, piercing rain as mother nature reigned over the fiery wreckage.  Shards of super-heated glass shot upward as parts of the engine bay made their impact upon the gritty sands.  The ship skidded to a staggering halt like an ill-thrown skipping stone before nestling its nose into a towering, muddied dune.  McCree’s last thoughts before his vision grew clouded with shock were of his crew, his ship, and lastly, his hat… And maybe the prospect of losing his own life.

    He couldn’t feel the rain anymore.  It was dark, far darker than night or the black of space, worst of all, McCree didn’t have his hat, or his gun.  “Can’t see a godt-dang thing,” he grumbled, reaching into the darkness but finding no form.  “Here,” called a voice, “let me fix that for you.”  The yanking of a pull-chain sounded off, ushering a cone of light in a room far older than it had any right to be.  Dim lights pinged noisily into life revealing a smoky bar with plush, red leather stools, pictures of heroes come and gone, and an obscene amount of taps, far too many for McCree to count.  “Well, you’re early,” behind the counter was a man clad in black, tracing the rim of a glass with a wash rag.  “What’ll it be?”

    McCree studied his surroundings, this certainly wasn’t the arid wasteland he crashed into.  He pulled up a barstool, perching his boots along the bottom railing before glancing at the selection.  “What d’you have?”  The bartender scoffed, focusing more on his glass than the prospect of a paying customer, “you name it we have it. I had a guy ask for peanut paste not too long ago. Lo and behold we had a couple of jars back here with his name on it.  I’d make it quick, though.”  He motioned to a watchless wrist, “last call is in a couple minutes.”   _You can’t be serious, what kind of place is this?_

    Mere seconds passed for McCree, but to the bartender, the indecision lasted an agonizing eternity.  “Here,” the bartender slides a glass towards McCree, “you’re taking too long, pal.”  He gave it a sniff; whiskey, turpentine, and gunpowder were in an eye-watering battle royale, each one itching to claim scent supremacy over the other contenders.  “Dear god, what is this?” He tore away his gaze from his glass for a second, “Coffin Varnish,” replied the bartender as he eyeballed the bottom of the glass he was cleaning, “fitting, don’t you think? All things considered,” he gestured to the bewildered cowpoke.

    “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”  The bartender was exasperated at this point.  “Geez, you’re just not getting it, pal. Can’t you put two and two together, partner? You were off someplace that obviously wasn’t here, one thing leads to another and now here you are. You’re in the Tombstone Saloon, having brunch with the other members of the Bucket-kicking Brigade.  You’re pushing up daisies at the Formal-wearing Fertilizer Fraternity.  Do I have to spell it out for you, buddy?  You’re dead, Mac. D.E.A.D.”

    “Anyone ever tell you it’s not healthy to bottle that stuff up?”  The bartender sighed heavily, “I’m sorry. You’re like the hundredth person to come in here today, asking the same questions, trying to grasp the same straws. Just once I’d like someone who didn’t make this job any tougher than it’s supposed to be, y’know?  Somebody who knows the rules. I mean, you have a job, don’t you? Wouldn’t you like it if you could deliver your newspapers, or whatever it is you do, without having some dog chasing after you?”

    “I suppose you do have a point.” McCree could grant him that at least, in all his years he never encountered a bartender in need of consoling.  The whole of it felt ass-backwards.  He tried desperately to remember what countless bartenders ended up telling him when he was in the midst of a drunken haze of uncertainty, but the most he could manage was, “uhhh, there-there.  I’m sure things’ll… turn around?”

    “You’re damn right they will!” The bartender rallied, “I’ve worked too long and too hard for this to be the status quo. Well no more!” He took McCree’s drink and knocked it back before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.  Before McCree could argue over the fact that his bartender just drank the drink that was rightfully his he shoved the dish-rag into his back pocket. “I’m having a word with the management. Thanks for putting things into perspective, pal. Your drink’s on the house, now get out of here. Bar’s closed."

     "That's it? I can just... Leave?"  The bartender gave him a callous shrug,  "Sure thing, I couldn't keep you here if I tried.  Somebody on the other side's fighting to bring you back, real mouth-to-mouth like.  Come back here when you’re serious about buying the farm.”  With a snap of the barman’s fingers, McCree found himself awash in a haze of unpleasantness as if waking up from an impromptu nap.

    “But I never got a drink,” McCree mumbled into the wind, coughing on dust caught in the back of his throat.  His vision blurred as the smokey walls of the bar dissipated into a breathtaking expanse of barren landscape.  The shadowy ceiling of the saloon he was in just moments ago gave way to clouds rushing overhead, a solar sail caught dimly in the shade, and robo-vultures clinging closely at the prospect of newly dead.  A dull pain cradled the back of his head as it sat flat on the deck of an open-air skiff.  He reached for his hat but found his head bare and his hands bound.  At the tiller stood not the bartender, but a man wrapped in a sand blown shroud, covered head to toe, eyes goggled, focusing on the sloping dunes lest he run the skiff aground.

    “You were dead.”  Disappointment hung loosely from the sailor’s words as he read the rays of a setting sun.  McCree's cheeks burned a solid crimson as he looked upon the man who saved his life, thinking about the bartender's final words.  His rescuer shared no signs of embarrassment as he glanced casually from the boat’s heading, “not enough water for the both of us, but I knew that.  Fishing you from the wreck.”  McCree’s brow wrinkled in confusion, “if you’re so worried about water why did ya save me? Could’ve taken my stuff, left me for the flyin’ roombas.”  The shrouded man tilted his head slightly, pondering.  “The poster read ‘dead or alive’. I was hoping your company would prove to be more like securing cargo than having to entertain a passenger. Yet here we are, Mr…. Mcgreedo?”  Hints at a knowing smirk hid underneath his face wrap as he flicked a crumpled holo-poster at his new guest.

    “The name’s McCree.” He growled through gritted teeth.  “Damn wanted posters could never get my name right. Who’s footin’ the bill for this one? Deadlock gang? I’ll let you in on a little secret, partner: their creds are as good as bitcoins.”  

    “Such small mindedness. Ever consider you might be underestimating your worth?”  It’s true, McCree had been up to more than just honest smuggling since he last set foot on this accursed pitstop of a planet.  Run-ins with the Resistance, harboring the Empire’s most wanted, the target on McCree’s back could only grow larger.  

    “So is that it? Sellin’ me to the highest bidder. I’ll have you know this ain’t my first rodeo. You’d have better luck sellin’ a tornado.”

    “It is not in my best interest to sell you, McCree.  I need you.”

    “You need me? What for? I’d be more optimistic if I wasn’t sufferin’ from a little light bondage .”

    “Hunting.  I seek a beast, far deadlier than you or I.  You were the closest any man has ever gotten to it and lived.  It knows no sleep, no rest, so to hunt it, neither will we.  We search for what brought your ship down.”  He blinked hard and for a second he was back on his ship, just before it was torn apart. His ship, the ship that went down without her captain.

    “Why?  Why go through all of this?  Seems a bit much for somethin’ to hang over the fireplace.”

    “Hunting the creature is the first step to atone for what I have done.  What we have done.  There is redemption in revenge, McCree, and right now we are in dire need of both.”   _Revenge_ thought McCree.  After all the short sticks he’d been handed McCree could do with a little revenge, for his ship, his crew... his hat.  Trouble is he’s heard this before.

    “Listen, partner, I ain’t goin’ to tell ya how to live your life.  I don’t know what happened to ya to earn a place amongst the likes of Cap’n Ahab, but the longer you’re at this the more it’s gonna take.  I’ve seen what revenge can do to a man, it ain’ pretty.  If you let it, it’ll godt-dang eat you alive.”

    For a moment the skiff sailor grew silent, McCree was unsure whether or not he struck a chord with his captor.  He set the tiller to the side, knelt down towards McCree and unshackled him.  McCree rubbed at his wrists, gingerly, “much obliged.  Not to sound ungrateful or nothing, but aren’t you worried I might rabbit?”

    “Where would you go?”  Fella had a point, there was nothing but dune for as far as the eye could see, and what could be seen was only getting smaller as darkness began shrouding the sandscape.  “I could just, hop off.”  Without a second’s hesitation the sailor tossed a scrap of salvage into the sands.  The very ground opened up, swallowing the salvage whole.  McCree stared at the shifting sands and swallowed hard, “the hell happened to this planet while I was gone?”

    “The beast.”  Silence manned the sails as the skiff made way to a floating platform, nestled in a cozy canyon.  Hover-boats hung floating on a multitude of winding, outstretched docks like the fragile seeds of a dandelion.  Moisture tarps hung over the entirety of the structure.  An omnic head was displayed over crossed torque shafts in the archway.  “Guessin’ y’all aren’t fans of the Empire.”

    “Building an interstellar highway will do that." The 66th Route they called it, a bridge between galaxies, and the reaper of many a small business on this planet.  "Their message was clear: what life that calls this planet home will soon find living hard.  Without a relay to speed us into traffic or slow them down to land here, the planet runs dry.  Well, save for those who crash, but who would do a thing like that?  People stare into the skies, watching life pass by, growing no younger.  The young and the reckless build their own relays, shooting themselves into the stars, risking all to escape this.  All because some misguided youth in a hat showed them it was possible.”

    McCree remembered the highway being built.  He remembered scrambling around for scrap before the sands grew ravenous.  He remembered building his first love, The Steel Horse.  She wasn’t pretty by any means, but she broke atmo, and back then, that was all McCree ever needed.  None of that relay garbage, just clear, open space.  This is what he escaped from: a life of scarce water, of bitterness, where the floor is lava and the stars are unreachable.  “If that kid could only see what sort of legacy he left behind.”

    “I have a feelin’ he already has.  Y'know, for an offworlder, you sure know your history.”

    “Living here you are reminded of it constantly.”  The man offered.

    “What brought ya here? Couldn’t have been the beaches.”

    “I told you, I am a hunter.  So long as my prey is here so too am I.”

    “Does Mr. Hunter have a name?”

    “Think long and hard, McCree.  Think on why I am not turning you in.  Why I saved you.  Why I need you.  Think of anyone who could possibly know this much about you.  Think of what you left behind.”  The sailor undid his face-wrap, to reveal bearded jaw, flecked with grey streaks.  Bells weren’t simply rung, they were shot at, ringing loudly, bouncing off the walls of the Dorado church McCree called his skull.  How could he have been so foolish?  Anger furrowed his brow, “hold up, I didn’t leave ya.  You made your bed with the Resistance, chasin’ ghost stories about your brother.  It was all fun and games until it started eatin’ you alive and now look at ya!  Is that what you’re callin’ him now? A beast? He’s your flesh ‘n blood, Hanzo!  I can’t keep watchin’ you do this to yourself.”

    “This town suffers because of him.  He suffers because of me.  You once shaped yourself into a bringer of justice.  You could become that man again.  These people could have one less thing to worry about.  I could finally rest.”  McCree only had hints of the man Hanzo was before he took on the hunt.  He needed the rest, he was sure of it, his hands were shaky as they reached for a jug of water, muscles tense.  McCree took the jug from him, forcibly.  “Alright, I’ll play my bloody part.  I’ll be your Little John, Robin Hood, that is if you’ll have me.”

    Hanzo embraced McCree, “thank you. You will not regret this.  Once this has past we can forge a life together.  A real one.”   _I’ve heard that before, Darlin’._  He kept his thoughts to himself, resting his hand on the back of Hanzo’s head, cradling it.  The two made their way back to Hanzo’s skiff, stocked with water, before blasting off into the sandscape.  McCree looked up at the stars, his hands fidgeting for a deck of cards to think over shuffling.

    On the one hand, he was fortunate to be alive, lucky that it was Hanzo who pulled him from the wreckage and not one of those hammerheads, or worse, the sand itself.  On the other hand, here he was, pulled into the same obsession that always seemed to take priority over himself.  He spent years filled with ‘maybe it’ll get better’s only to run away.  He didn’t have it in him anymore, not for more of this.  There were two roads laid out before him: chasing ghosts in the desert until he built his own relay, or they finally catch this boogeyman, history fails to repeat itself, and losing his ship and crew would mean more than the senseless loss he carried.   _Well,_ McCree thought to himself, _at least the sex’ll be somethin’._


End file.
